Ferenc Juhasz; Birth of a Foal

Reply Wed 10 Dec, 2003 09:34 am
Here's a little-known Hungarian poem.


As May was opening the rosebuds,

elder and lilac beginning to bloom,

it was time for the mare to foal.

She'd rest herself, or hobble lazily

after the boy who sang as he led her

to pasture, wading through the meadowflowers.

They wandered back at dusk, bone-tired,

the moon perched on a blue shoulder of sky.

Then the mare lay down,

sweating and trembling, on her straw in the stable.

The drowsy, heavy-bellied cows

surrounded her, waiting, watching, snuffing.

Later, when even the hay slept

and the shaft of the Plough pointed South,

the foal was born. Hours the mare

spent licking the foal with its glue-blind eyes.

And the foal slept at her side,

a heap of feathers ripped from a bed.

Straw never spread as soft as this.

Milk or snow never slept like a foal.

Dawn bounced up in a bright red hat,

waved at the world and skipped away.

Up staggered the foal,

its hooves were jelly - knots of foam.

Then day sniffed with its blue nose

through the open stable window, and found them -

the foal nuzzling its mother,

velvet fumbling for her milk.

Then all the trees were talking at once,

chickens scrabbled in the yard,

like golden flowers

envy withered the last stars.

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Reply Wed 10 Dec, 2003 09:37 am
Kenji, thank you for posting this lovely poem. It has made my day beautiful for having read it. I could almost smell the stable and hear the soft shuffling of the animals.
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Reply Wed 10 Dec, 2003 09:40 am
Oh, and welcome to a2k. You make a wonderful addition to a fascinating site of interesting people.
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Reply Wed 10 Dec, 2003 09:43 am
Thank you kindly. I think i've found a site that really suits me. Films, poetry and art are my main interests so i expect to spend much time here- though i'm about to go off for a night's break.
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Reply Sun 14 Dec, 2003 09:27 am
Here's another on the same subject.

eecummings: 'the little horse is newlY'

the little horse is newlY

Born)he knows nothing,and feels

everything;all around whom is

perfectly a strange

ness Of sun

light and of fragrance and of

Singing)is ev

erywhere(a welcom

ing dream:is amazing)

a worlD.and in

this world lies:smooth beautifuL

ly folded;a(brea

thing and gro

Wing)silence, who;


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Reply Wed 25 Feb, 2015 04:14 am
Hi just found this while doing some research on Ferenc Juhasz. Are you Kenji the artist who I met at the Hereford Open Art Week and who paints wolves and pandas?
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